


Fire and Sulfur

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Butt Plugs, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Multi, Multiple Penetration, Non-Consensual Bondage, Overstimulation, Public Humiliation, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Panic sets in quickly. He knows where he is. He knows this sour-sweet smell of rot, the organic lace of sulfur. He knows this hot suffocating air sitting heavy in his lungs. His heart thumps manically against his ribs, body trembling as fear wraps cold fingers around his stomach. He tries to even out his ragged breathing, and a tiny whimper escapes him.Something scrapes along the floor before a hand comes down roughly on his thigh, right by his hip. Aziraphale flinches, tries to shrink away, but his bindings hold him firm."You're awake then, eh?" says a voice.(Hastur decides it's time Crowley was properly punished, and Aziraphale suffers for it)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Hastur (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains descriptions of Aziraphale being raped by demons in Hell while tied down and blindfolded. Please tread carefully if this is something that might upset you. I wrote this to process some things, and will update it when I need an outlet for the times I'm not feeling great. It means I don't have any kind of update schedule planned, but needless to say it will be bad for Aziraphale for a while. If and when I update, I will of course add relevant tags and include any specific warnings in the notes.

The first thing Aziraphale registers is pain.

His mind swims up from some murky depth, and everything hurts. His shoulders and thighs burn, his back aches, his skull pulses with every beat of his heart. He tries to open his eyes, but a blindfold keeps him firmly in the dark. Frantically, he fishes for the bits and pieces of what he remembers before he sank into nothingness - remembers a book, the smell of hot cocoa, then fear, a struggle, throbbing pain at the back of his head.

He tries to move, but realizes with a bolt of dread that he can't. His arms are bound on either side above his head, impossibly tight at his wrists, somehow cutting off the flow of holy energy through his body. His legs are spread apart and suspended, bound just as tightly at the ankles. The hard edge of whatever he's lying on - cold stone, it feels like - digs into his arse, and he at last notices that he's completely naked. 

Panic sets in quickly. He knows where he is. He knows this sour-sweet smell of rot, the organic lace of sulfur. He knows this hot suffocating air sitting heavy in his lungs. His heart thumps manically against his ribs, body trembling as fear wraps cold fingers around his stomach. He tries to even out his ragged breathing, and a tiny whimper escapes him.

Something scrapes along the floor before a hand comes down roughly on his thigh, right by his hip. Aziraphale flinches, tries to shrink away, but his bindings hold him firm.

"You're awake then, eh?" says a voice. It's harsh and grating and frighteningly familiar.

The hand slides down to the inside of his thigh and grazes at the side of his flaccid cock. He yelps involuntarily, tries to close his legs against the unwanted touch, but his thighs strain uselessly. There's an unkind laugh in response, and the hand pulls away.

"Oh, this'll be the most fun I've had in centuries." A few footsteps ring out against a stone floor, and then the voice shouts, "Alright, bring him in!"

The blood in Aziraphale's veins runs cold. A memory flickers at the back of his mind, the last thing he can remember before he woke up here.

_Crowley ._

He'd been waiting for Crowley. They were going out for dinner, the new Thai place that had opened up down the road. Then he'd felt a ripple of occult energy, heard that same awful voice, and knew it meant they were in danger. That _Crowley_ was in danger.

He hopes - _prays_ \- that Crowley got away, that he hasn't been dragged down here, that he's just sitting in the bookshop, worried over where Aziraphale has got to, but safe nonetheless.

His hopes come crashing down around him as another voice echoes through the room.

"Oh, piss off, Hastur, I thought I'd won my right to never have to look at your pustulant face ever again."

Aziraphale screws his eyes shut behind the blindfold. Hearing Crowley's voice in Hell is like a kick to the face.

"Welcome home, Crowley," Hastur says with gleeful sarcasm. "So good to have you back. Thought you might like to see what we did with the place."

There's a moment of silence, and Aziraphale suddenly feels incredibly exposed, knowing that there are multiple sets of eyes on his trussed up body.

"No. No no no no, Aziraphale, fuck…"

Shame prickles at his skin as he thinks about Crowley seeing him like this, overpowered and splayed out. He wants to call out to him, to connect with the being he loves so dearly, but his throat constricts, keeps his voice trapped inside his chest. He rolls his head to the side, away from the direction of Crowley's voice, and presses his face into his upper arm.

"Hastur, please." Crowley's voice wavers, and it lances Aziraphale in the heart. "Please just… do whatever the fuck you want to me, alright? Is that what you're after? You want me to trade places with him?"

He can hear footsteps approaching, and his body trembles harder.

"Because I'll do it. You can chain me up somewhere, you can cut bits off me - fuck, I'll even give you suggestions. Just please…" A pair of hands come down on either of Aziraphale's thighs, rough as before, calluses scraping at his skin, and Crowley's voice becomes more desperate. " _Please_ don't hurt him."

"Oh, trust me, Crowley," comes Hastur's voice from above him. "When we're done here, I will gladly tear you apart, piece by piece, until you're nothing but a fucking stain on the ground." He curls his hands into Aziraphale's thighs, until sharp nails dig in, until Aziraphale has to bite the inside of his mouth to stop from shouting out.

"But you destroyed someone very important to me, Crowley. So first, I'm gonna do the same to you."

Aziraphale's breath hitches as he chokes on a voiceless sob.

"Hastur, for fuck's sake, I'm begging you here, I-" A snap of fingers, and Crowley's words break off, replaced instead with a muffled cry.

"Make sure he watches. And the rest of you, no touching until I'm done. You can do whatever the fuck you want with the angel afterwards, but this is personal."

Aziraphale hears Crowley's stifled shouting, hears some scuffle that's shortly snuffed out. Then Hastur leans closer, the fabric of his clothing scratching against the inside of his thighs. Aziraphale's pulse hammers in his ears, chest slowly closing up around his lungs as he tries but fails to keep his breathing level.

Hastur snaps his fingers again and something sharply cold fills him, starts leaking profusely from out of his arsehole, and he lets out a startled shout. He hears others in the room around him laugh.

"How'd you like that, Crowley? I made your angel scream without even touching him."

Aziraphale's cheeks burn at those words, at the laughter, at how utterly pathetic he is right now. He can still hear Crowley's protests, fighting against whatever restraints are holding him down. The muffled yelling suddenly becomes more frantic, and then something blunt pushes at his hole. Aziraphale clenches and pulls at his bindings, panics when he realizes there is no way for him to move, no way to stop what's about to happen. There's a grunt above him as the head of Hastur's cock pushes further into his slicked hole, starts stretching him out painfully. Aziraphale arches his back, the only movement he's afforded, and tries to bite down on the scream building in his chest. He can't give them another reason to laugh at him - can't give Crowley another reason to worry.

"Fuck, he's nice and tight," says Hastur, full of dreadful delight. "Can see why you enjoy fucking him so much, Crowley."

Aziraphale coughs out another strangled sob. He and Crowley hadn't yet made love. After they'd saved the world, they'd become far closer than before - dinner dates and holding hands and kisses in the back of the bookshop. But that was as far as they'd made it. Aziraphale had never had sex with anyone - had been too afraid to even suggest it to Crowley, too uncomfortable to stomach the idea of doing it with a human. He'd imagined that the first time Crowley might penetrate him during sex, it would be gentle and slow, that Crowley would kiss him and look into his eyes and Aziraphale would know he was safe.

He hides that thought away now, desperately hopes it might remain untainted if he locks it away somewhere deep in his mind.

Hastur shoves his cock inside him without care, and the feeling of fullness is overwhelming, stings so much that he can see purple starbursts behind his eyelids. The scream in his chest balloons against his ribs, collects in the back of his throat as a high pitched keen. He tries to swallow it, even as Hastur begins pounding into him, even as he feels himself being torn open. Crowley’s muted sobbing reaches him over the sound of Hastur growling, and he clamps his jaw shut as tight as he can manage.

“Fuck, come on. Give us a show.” Hastur slaps at his arse, striking the skin of his upper thigh with an open hand. The sting wrenches a shout from his throat, forces his back to arch once again. There’s another ripple of sinister laughter and a few cheers. Aziraphale bites down on his lip as Hastur thrusts deep into him, but it’s not enough to hold back the whimpering that quivers out of him.

Hastur stills for a moment, and Aziraphale somehow feels more vulnerable this way, impaled on his throbbing cock and unable to move. “The more you try not to watch, the worse it’ll be for him, Crowley.”

Crowley lets out an agonized wail, a wretched sound that makes Aziraphale’s heart clench, and then, without warning, Hastur begins fucking him again.

Aziraphale does his best to block it all out, tries instead to recall the book he was reading earlier - anything to drown out the sound of Hastur’s hips slapping against him, the sound of Crowley’s tortured anguish, the blinding pain that’s now radiating through his hips.

Then Hastur strikes a spot inside him that sends a whip of electricity up his spine, makes him moan against his will. Another peal of laughter and another slap on his arse.

“You like that, do you?” Hastur says, voice dripping with mockery. “Didn’t think angels were such little sluts.”

Hastur hits the same spot again, and Aziraphale makes a noise somewhere between a moan and a sob, shame and pleasure vying for space in his abdomen. He can feel his own cock stirring against his hip, and a new fear enters his mind - that Crowley might think he’s enjoying this. That an orgasm might be pulled out of him without his permission, and Crowley would watch it happen. Shame ignites under his skin.

Before Hastur can draw any more pleasure from him, he shudders and pulls out with a grunt. Something hot splatters over Aziraphale’s belly and chest, eliciting a chorus of cheers from the room.

Aziraphale shivers as he lies there helplessly, hole throbbing while his half hard cock rests against his thigh, wrists and ankles sore where the bindings bite at his skin. The spend on his belly is cooling already, forming a congealed mess. A feeble cry tumbles out of him as he waits for Hastur to touch him again, but instead he hears footsteps travel across the room.

“Did you enjoy yourself then?” Crowley lets out some wild noise, and Hastur laughs in response. “Alright, calm down. We’ve barely got started here.”

Aziraphale can feel someone - several someones - hovering near him, moving towards him slowly. He swallows thickly, tongue sticking to the roof of his dry mouth, as he remembers that Hastur had promised him to the others in the room.

“Go on then, you lot.”

Before Aziraphale can ready himself, another pair of hands are on him - bigger and broader, pinning his hips firmly to the cold slab beneath him. The unnamed demon rams their cock inside him in one ruthless thrust, and he can hardly stop himself from screaming this time. It’s bigger than Hastur’s, far too big, and for a moment he thinks he might white out from the pain. He's barely caught his breath when the demon fucks into him mercilessly, and can't manage anything more than a stuttering cry against the onslaught.

At his side, he hears two more demons grunting and groaning, hears the obscene sound of skin slapping on skin. Someone grabs a handful of the flesh at his belly, and then there's another hot spurt across his chest. They let him go, and he hears someone else shuffle into their place.

Aziraphale whimpers as the demon fucking his arse leans forward and comes with a howl, filling him so much he can feel it spill down his crack. There's a growl next to him, and another hot rope of semen splatters across his stomach. The cock slides out of him, and he sobs as it drags over the abused ridge of his hole. For one second, he’s thankful that at least it was over quickly, but the relief is short-lived.

Another demon shoves between his legs, sinking their cock inside him, stretching him out again, and Aziraphale wails helplessly against it. The demon thrusts in deep and hits the same spot from before, the one that makes him moan and arch his back. There's a cruel laugh, and the demon adjusts themselves to strike it again, forcing another cry out of his lungs.

“Oh, he likes that,” says another voice near his head, amused. “What a little cock slut.”

Aziraphale stifles another sob as his cock - which had softened after the previous brutal fucking - begins to fill again. Somewhere across the room he can hear the murmur of Hastur's voice, punctuated by Crowley softly crying. His gut twists to hear Crowley suffering, doesn't even want to consider what he must think of him right now, watching him moan as his cock hardens against his stomach.

The cock in his arse drives into his prostate again, and his erection throbs painfully. There’s shuffling near his head and then a hand grips at his hair, wrenches his head back. He yelps at the sudden movement, at the biting pull on his scalp, and then a hot weight presses down on his tongue, flooding his mouth with the taste of salt and sour sweat. He panics, chokes on the cock now thrusting into the back of his throat, and then makes a stifled whine as his sensitive prostate takes another pounding.

“ _Fuck_ ,” the demon between his legs hisses. “Look how hard he is. D’you think he’ll come on my cock?”

Aziraphale tries to move his head away, to get the other demon out of his mouth, but the hand in his hair holds him painfully in place.

"If you keep going that way, I reckon he will," the demon in his mouth answers, voice strained with pleasure.

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut behind the blindfold, damp against his cheeks from unshed tears. Pressure mounts in his abdomen, and he feels himself losing control over his body - he moans around the cock in his mouth, bucks his hips to meet the cock in his arse as his own hard prick bounces on his belly. There's another round of laughter and cheers, and to his dismay the shame that blazes in the pit of his stomach only heightens the pleasure.

The demon fucks him at a brutal pace, drawing him closer to climax. He tries to stop it, wills his body to reject it, but there’s nothing he can do against the relentless thrusting at his prostate. The muscles in his limbs seize up, and he pulls hard against his restraints as blinding pleasure takes over him, his desperate moans muffled by the cock still shoved down his throat, his spend dribbling out of him in a pitiful little puddle.

The room erupts into a cacophonous roar around him, and the moment he comes down from the high, humiliation takes over. He wants to hide, wants to curl up as small as he can make himself. His stomach turns itself inside out, and he can't tell if the bile rising in his throat is from the mouth-fucking or the abasement of the whole thing.

“He really is a little slut,” Hastur crows from somewhere across the room. “Does he scream like that for you, Crowley?”

Aziraphale had harboured many fantasies of coming for Crowley, of watching Crowley come for him. He had hoped the first time Crowley heard him moaning in pleasure, it would be somewhere soft and familiar, wrapped in each other's arms, a gesture of love and trust.

Instead, Crowley had watched him shout with ecstasy as he'd been fucked by two demons. There had been no hiding his arousal. With gut-wrenching anguish, he realises just what's been taken away from them, ripped out of the ground before it even had the chance to take root.

Before Aziraphale is able to reflect on it further, the demon at his mouth picks up the pace and he gags as the head of their cock smacks the back of his throat repeatedly. With a wet pop, the cock pulls out and hot semen spurts all over his face. He splutters as he inhales it, wretches against the bitterness that drips over his tongue. The hand in his hair holds fast and he feels the head of another cock press against his lips and empty into his mouth as well. He whimpers, coughs up what he can, but is forced to swallow most of it.

His arsehole burns, still fucked raw by the demon between his legs. They thrust deeper, and hit against his sweet spot again. It's too much, far too sensitive now, and he cries out. The demon pounds against it mercilessly, and at last Aziraphale finds his voice.

"Stop," he croaks out of his excoriated throat. "I can't-please stop."

He tries uselessly to pull away, but the demon doesn't let up, and another orgasm, slow and tortuous, is wrested from his body. He weeps openly, too tired and overwhelmed to hold it all back anymore. All he can do is lie on the stone slab where he's bound, a quivering, over-sensitive bundle of burnt nerves, and cry.

The demon grips at his thighs and comes inside him with a forceful shout. Aziraphale feels his hole fill up and overflow once more, hears more demons hollering as the cock slides out of him. His gut turns again at feeling so used, so debased, come dripping from his arse, his mouth, running down his sides in slow, sticky streams.

Another demon rams inside his abused hole, and he yelps out helplessly. The pain invades his mind, digs sharp claws into his lungs, distorts the sounds around him as though he’s underwater.

He drifts, and tries instead to think about what he and Crowley would have been doing if none of this had happened. He thinks about the little Thai place, about the bright red facade with gold lettering, about the kindly owner that waves at him every time he walks past. He was going to try the khao soi. He was going to ask Crowley to give it a taste. They were going to walk home, arms linked together, and spend the rest of the evening getting through a bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild he’d picked out earlier. It’s probably still sitting on the coffee table. He pictures himself with his head pressed against Crowley’s chest, with arms wrapped around him, hands on his body that caress him, that love him.

Reality floats further away, becomes ever more distant as the pain consumes him entirely. He’s only dimly aware of another demon coming over his body, of another cock splitting him open, of another chorus of laughter at his expense.

The edges of his consciousness start fading to black, and he chases it, desperate for whatever small amount of agency he can grasp, for anything that will allow him to leave this misery.

He hears one final muffled cry of Crowley’s voice before he sinks into oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains descriptions of Aziraphale tied up and blindfolded while raped by demons. There is also the introduction of a toy for the purposes of forced orgasms. Please tread carefully.

Aziraphale floats through darkness for some time - or perhaps it's only been an hour. He can't tell, can only grasp at reality as it drips in through the cracks. There are brief moments where his mind clears, and he finds himself engulfed in pain, lower half completely numb, unable to move beyond violent shivering. Voices fade in and out, most of them harsh and unkind, but occasionally he catches bits of Crowley - muffled sobbing, a pained cry. Sometimes there are hands on his body, jostling him, clawing at him, dragging him like a rag doll.

Pain bites at his knees, and he starts awake. His neck aches as he lifts his head, realizes it had been lolling to the side. He's upright now, kneeling with his wrists and ankles bound tightly behind him, arching his back and forcing his belly out. He twitches, shoulder blades burning, and feels a thick wooden pillar behind him. His arms and legs have been forced around it, tied together behind it, and his thighs sit wide open as a result. His soft cock and balls dangle between them, just barely brushing against the cold stone floor. He has hardly any room to move like this, so much more exposed than he was previously.

He can feel a hot light shining on him, can see it in pinpricks through the bottom of the blindfold. Sorrow swells in his heart, knowing he's been put on display for another round of defilement. His head falls back against the pillar as he wills himself to sink back into oblivion, to escape whatever is about to happen to him, but his mind remains resolutely present. Footsteps pound against the floor, come to a stop in front of him, and a whimper gurgles in the back of his throat.

"Think he's ready," a gruff voice says above him.

"Excellent," Hastur replies from somewhere to his right. There's a loud thump, followed by the sound of Crowley's stifled shouting.

"Got you a good seat for this one, Crowley," Hastur says with sadistic glee.

A flicker of comfort stirs in Aziraphale's heart at Crowley's presence, like a sparkling stone winking from the bottom of a murky river, but it's immediately smothered by a wave of crushing guilt. How can he possibly find solace in Crowley's continued suffering? He can barely stand his own selfishness.

"Alright lads, let's get started."

Shouts and jeers echo around the room as a hand grabs at his jaw, tilts his head up. He's already trembling, completely immobilized against the pillar. His breaths come in heaving gasps, chest closing in on itself with the dreadful anticipation of what's to come.

"Got a pretty little mouth, don't you?" says the demon gripping his face.

Aziraphale swallows down a sob as the demon swipes a thumb over his bottom lip, and he clenches his jaw tightly. For one hopeful second, he thinks it might let him resist his fate this time, but then another hand twists into his hair, tugs on it viciously, forcing an agonized cry out of his lungs. As soon as his mouth is open, a thick cock shoves its way to the back of his throat, tasting of sweat and something horribly, terribly bitter. He gags on it, tries to move his head, but it just smacks against the wooden post. Cruel laughter rings out across the room, and the corners of his eyes sting with tears.

Hands firmly holding him in place, the demon starts snapping their hips, fucking into his mouth, blocking his airway with every thrust. He doesn't need to breathe, but panic wraps around his chest anyway. He makes a wet, strangled sound in his throat, writhes against his bindings, and the demon fucks him harder. 

"I didn't know angels were so good at sucking cock," a voice from somewhere else in the room shouts out. "Bet you made good use of that, Crowley."

He feels his skin flush with embarrassment. He'd often fantasized about falling to his knees in front of Crowley. Late at night, in the privacy of his own quarters, he would pleasure himself as he imagined taking Crowley's length in his mouth, savoring the weight of him on his tongue. He would picture Crowley's fingers threading through his hair, cradling his head and pushing him down, firmly but gently, while he stroked himself to completion. The fantasy always ended with him looking up to find Crowley coming undone, lips parted and breathing shallow, golden eyes burning with lust as he moaned Aziraphale's name.

Of course, an angel wasn't supposed to have such thoughts, and every time he found his release that way, he felt guilt burn deep inside him. Perhaps Hell knows the truth already, that he's a terrible, pathetic excuse for an angel. Perhaps this is his just punishment. He tries to sob, but it's choked by the demon's cock thrusting into his mouth.

He hears Crowley's muted yelling, hears another thump followed by laughter.

"Enjoying the show?" Hastur says, amused. Crowley all but growls at him, and he continues. "How about we make things a little more interesting, eh?"

There's a snap, and then Aziraphale's battered arsehole is stretched around something smooth and thick. He tries to shout, but all he manages is a half-drowned gargle as the demon's cock hits the back of his throat again. More laughter, and his cheeks glow with embarrassment.

His hole clenches reflexively, stings as it vehemently rejects the intrusion. The plug extends up inside him, and every time the demon fucks into his face, it jolts agonizingly against his prostate. His cheeks grow hotter still as he feels his cock stir at the sensation.

Finally, the demon shouts out and empties into his mouth, down the back of his throat. He coughs and wretches, spend dribbling down his chin and onto his chest. The cock slides out of his mouth, and a high pitched whine squeaks out of him as he gulps down air, tries to spit up more of the demon's seed. The whole thing draws a raucous cheer from the room.

The pain starts to overwhelm Aziraphale's body - his jaw aches, his arsehole throbs, his throat feels as though it's been shredded to ribbons. As the next demon grips his head tightly and shoves their cock into his mouth, he wonders if he could fade into one of his old fantasies, pretend his lips were stretched around Crowley instead. The cock shoves further down his violated throat, smacks his head against the pillar again, and he lets out a muffled cry of pain. He realizes then that there's no way he could pretend this was Crowley, no way his beloved would ever disregard his well being this way, his boundaries, his sense of self-worth.

Then his stomach drops when he remembers that Crowley watched him get off during the previous round of abuse, that Crowley can see his half-hard erection right now as he's brutally mouth-fucked, and he wonders if Crowley will ever want to touch him again after this.

The cock rips out of his mouth, and then he feels the demon's seed splatter all over his face and chest. Between the laughter, he hears another voice call out, "What would Heaven think of you now?"

Shame burns brightly under his skin. If Heaven knew what had become of him, knew that he'd been captured by Hell to be raped and tortured by demons, they likely wouldn't care. In fact, Heaven would probably deem it an act of righteous justice.

Even before he'd defected, Heaven had rarely cared when he managed to get into trouble on Earth, only remarking that he needed to be more careful with company property on occasions where his corporation had been seriously injured. When he'd found himself chained up in the Bastille, he hadn't even been permitted to use a miracle to save himself.

But Crowley had saved him. Crowley had always saved him, had always looked out for him. He hears Crowley now, softly crying somewhere in the room, while Hastur cackles, ridiculing the both of them. An aching hollowness expands inside Aziraphale's chest as he realizes that Crowley won't be saving him this time.

Another hand reaches into his hair, pulls his head back into the post with horrific force. He yelps out helplessly, body shivering violently. It rubs the plug against the sensitive spot inside him, and his cock throbs against his thigh. His mouth floods with the taste of salt as another cock pushes down against his tongue and pounds the back of his throat.

He begins losing track of them at that point. His mouth is fucked over and over, throat on fire, jaw nearly numb with ache, and all the while his cock fills as the plug slowly works on his prostate, drawing lewd moans out of him every time.

By the sixth or seventh time a cock is wedged down his throat, his own erection is standing fully to attention, and his stomach churns in disgrace as his body tries to chase the pleasure, clenching down harder on the toy. His hips buck involuntarily, cock desperate to find any kind of friction. He begins to sob, and he has no idea if it's out of frustration or humiliation.

"Need some help, do we?" Hastur calls out, clearly amused.

There's a snap and the toy buzzes to life, vibrates against his prostate and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head. He moans obscenely around the cock in his mouth, and tension starts coiling in his abdomen, starts locking up the muscles in his thighs.

Another snap and the vibrations stop. He lets out a useless cry as the tension drops, and thrusts his hips into nothing. There's a chorus of laughter around the room.

"You want it back on, do you?" the demon fucking his mouth says, tone full of cruel mocking.

Aziraphale sobs, doesn't want these demons to see him come again - doesn't want Crowley to see that again - but his cock aches, his whole body desperate to find release.

The demon groans and starts pulling and pushing him along their cock by his hair. He tries to scream at the violent tugging on his scalp, at the continued evisceration of his throat, at the painful throbbing of his cock, but all he can manage is a pathetic whimper.

Someone snaps their fingers, and the plug buzzes inside him again. A frantic moan punches out of his lungs as heat erupts in his belly once more. He pulls hard against his restraints, feels them dig into his wrists and ankles, and the tension from the resistance only serves to heighten the pleasure. His hips thrust out wildly, cock bouncing against his stomach with a slap.

"Filthy little angel slut," the demon says with a grunt, pulling out and emptying all over his face.

The moment the hot semen strikes his skin, he thinks of himself on his knees in front of the archangels, a debauched mess, and shame and pleasure burn with twin flames in his stomach, consume him entirely. His cry rings out through the room as his body seizes up, pulls himself taught against the pillar as he ejaculates harder than he has in his entire existence, all over his belly and thighs.

His body rides out the orgasm, clenching down as the vibrating plug carries him through wave after wave of pleasure. He can barely hear the cheering in the room over the roar of his own pulse in his ears. As the high ebbs, overstimulation swells in its place. The plug continues to vibrate, almost painful against his burnt out prostate, and he involuntarily seizes up, over and over, body writhing against his bindings in a desperate attempt to get rid of the toy.

His back arches as much as his restraints allow, and he weeps desperately, chest heaving and throat burning.

"Please… please stop… pl…aaaahhh…"

Another wave of tension sweeps over his body, too intense and deeply unsatisfying, and leaves him a trembling mess afterwards. He can only distantly hear the laughter, only distantly hear his own crying. Another cock rams into his mouth, cracks his head against the pillar, and pain blossoms out of his skull. The room spins and, finally, he lets go.

For an indeterminate amount of time, his mind is mercifully blank.

Eventually, he becomes aware of his body again. The back of his head pulses sluggishly, his wrists and ankles sting where the bindings have dug in deep, his knees feel rubbed raw, and he finds himself awake again.

The room is quiet - disconcertingly so. He's still tied to the post, still covered with the drying seed of countless demons, still has the plug up his arse, though it sits completely still now. He groggily lifts his head, immediately feels as though he's going to pass out again, but he needs to know that he hasn't just been left here by himself.

"Cr…" His voice rasps against his abused throat, and the pain that erupts inside his mouth makes him see stars. He holds on, desperate to reach out, and chokes up a single word. "Crowley."

There's a scrape on the floor, a clink of metal, and then Crowley's muffled voice reaches his ears - weak and wavering, but there all the same. He coughs out a strangled sob in response. He hears more metallic rattling, and then Crowley makes a series of desperate, heartbreaking sounds that almost sound like _angel._

Aziraphale tries to say something else - _I love you_ , or _I'm sorry_ , or anything else at all - but consciousness slips from him again and he returns to complete oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is where I will be taking my frustrations out on my poor angel baby :( I'm sorry Aziraphale. But I guess this fic is pretty much just gonna be scenes like this for a while.


End file.
